


You are More Dear to Me Than All the Waters of the Sea

by dolamrotha



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, One Shot Collection, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2019-07-15 07:50:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 18,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16058747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dolamrotha/pseuds/dolamrotha
Summary: A one-shot collection, all focused on our favorite King of Rohan and his queen. Mostly tumblr prompt fills, with some other one-shots thrown in for fun.





	1. Can We Go See the Dinosaurs? (Nanny x Single Parent AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be surprised if you see this one as a fic of its own, eventually. ; )

There are three things that  Lothíriel notices first about the little girl running toward her: the big green eyes alight with curiosity, the cloud of tawny curls only half-tamed, and the fact that she’s currently riding a stick horse with a toy sword clenched in one little fist. 

“Oh,” she says, skidding to a stop in the front hallway, nearly colliding with  Lothíriel’s shins. “Hi!” 

One more thing: she’s  _literally_ the  _cutest_ little kid that  Lothíriel has  _ever_ seen. 

“Hi,”  Lothíriel replies, crouching down so that they could both be at eye-level. “You must be Thea.” 

“Uh huh. Daddy says you’re gonna be taking care of me when he goes to work and stuff.” Straight to the point,  Lothíriel thinks with a smile, and not shy in the least. This was  _bound_ to be interesting. Particularly once you factored in the measuring glint in Thea’s bright-eyed gaze. She must be clever as all get out,  Lothíriel muses. If she could prove herself, they’d get along famously. 

“I don’t know,” she says, furrowing her brow as she glances down at the toy horse, the gold-painted sword. “It looks like you can take care of yourself well enough. I think I’m just here to clean up after you.” 

“You’d be doing more than I can, if you can manage that.” 

The voice is a deep rumble, quiet as distant thunder, and when  Lothíriel glances up from Thea’s grinning face, the eyes staring back at her are not at all what she had been expecting. Keen and as bright as his daughter’s, they pierce  Lothíriel through in an instant, and she feels the responding thud of her heart like a gunshot. 

Oh _, **dear**. _

Her father had told her only that an old friend of his needed help with his child on some weekdays and evenings, but he hadn’t said that friend was so young. Or so handsome. Not that she might have expected such a report from her father, of all people, but it truly would have been nice to be  _prepared_. All her father had done was ask her if she’d be willing to help. And with her evenings and week days clear for the summer, how could she say no? 

“You’re Imrahil’s daughter?” 

She can only hope that she’s not blushing as she stands, nods, and tucks a few loose strands of dark hair behind her ear before holding out her hand.

“ Lothíriel,” she replies, using her bravest smile to cover up the sudden (and irrational) swell of nerves. His hand is warm around hers, rough with callouses, and so big that her own small, smooth hand is swallowed up in his. And heaven help her, but it sends an electric current up and down her arm, from hand to shoulder.

“ Éomer,” he says, and does she imagine it or do his eyes seem to drink her in a little more deeply than they should? Does she imagine it, or does he clear his throat as he takes his hand back to rest it on Thea’s head, instead. “Your father said you were good with children,” he says, with a grin made slow by either design or surprising reserve, and she can’t help but assume it’s the latter. “It’s clear he was right. Think you’ll be okay with Miss. Lothíriel for the day, T?” 

Little Thea looks up at him, shaking her head away from his hand and pushing her hair back with the rest of her sword hand. “Uh huh. She’s fun, I can tell.” The freckled little nose wrinkles suddenly, just before she says: “Better than the last babysitter, that’s for sure,” and the struggle to refrain from laughter is so plain on  Éomer ‘s bearded face that  Lothíriel can’t help but smile. 

“You can call me Thiri,” she says to the little girl with a wink. “And you’ll have to tell me all about this last babysitter, That way I can try my very best to be  _nothing_ like her.” 

There’s a pleasant sort of surprise in  Éomer ‘s eyes, as though he had been expecting a different sort of person, and maybe she can’t blame him. She can’t help but wonder how many Gondorian girls he’s met, if he’s ever met anyone from Dol Amroth besides her father and her brothers. 

“Alright, you,” he says to Thea, turning his gaze away from  Lothíriel at last. “Your breakfast is getting cold, go eat.” 

Though Thea rolls her eyes, she dashes away with a click of her tongue, as though urging on a horse, and  Lothíriel can’t help but to smile. 

“Thanks for doing this,”  Éomer says, keeping careful distance as he leads her down the hallway, toward the kitchen. “Your father said he’d ask you, but I never thought you’d accept. Thought you’d be too busy.” 

“It’s no trouble, really. She seems like a great kid, and my summer plans sort of…fell through.” 

When they make it to the kitchen, Thea is sitting on a tall chair at a short breakfast bar, kicking her legs against the metal legs. 

“Thiri!” She calls. “Come look! There’s dinosaurs in my oatmeal!” 

“Dinosaurs?” She echoes, feigning alarm. “How did dinosaurs get in there?” 

The little sugar dinos nestled in the oats stare up at her, brightly colored, and she swears  Éomer looks almost sheepish, as though expecting reprimand. After chatting with Thea about dinosaurs a moment, she finds her way back to him, knowing there must be instructions of some sort or another waiting before he can head out. “I always loved those, as a kid,” she says quietly, so Thea won’t hear that the surprise in her voice was false. “It was all my mom could do to make me eat the actual oats and not just the dinosaurs.” 

Whatever worry had been in his eyes melted away, replaced by a grin. 

“She’s got the appetite of a bear, so no need to worry about that. She’ll eat the whole thing and ask for seconds….which you can give her, by the way. Up to you.” 

His list of instructions is relatively brief, mostly concerning phone numbers to call in case of emergency (his own and his sister’s), and mentions of Thea’s favorite things to do. 

Just before he leaves, they’re there in the doorway,  Éomer on one side of the threshold,  Lothíriel on the other. 

“Seriously,” he says, “Call me for anything.” 

And it’s silly, but something in her chest seems to tighten at the words, though she knows he means - - can  _only_ mean - - anything that might come up with Thea.  _Right_? 

Their eyes meet, hold just a beat too long, long enough for both of them to realize it’s been a beat too long. 

“Don’t worry,”  Lothíriel says at last, hand on the doorknob and a smile on her face. “I’ve got this. Thea and I are going to get along just fine.” 

A moment longer he stands there looking at her, almost surprised, before a smile creeps back across his face and he pulls a hand through his mane of tawny hair. 

“Yeah,” he says at last. “I think you will.” 

If she feels a moment’s embarrassment or regret as she closes the door behind him, it doesn’t last long: there’s a five year old with a freckled face and a toothy grin dashing toward her, holding a basket full of toys. 

And how could she possibly say no to the little face that had already stolen her heart? 

“Come on, you,” she says, reaching out for the offered hand. “Let’s go clean up after those dinosaurs, first. If we leave them out on the counter like that, they might grow too big, and I don’t want to know what happens, then.” 


	2. Crowd Control (Meeting at a Festival AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eowyn does a bit of much-needed meddling at a music festival. Eomer grumbles.

 “Do these kids  _never_ drink water?”   Éomer grumbles, narrowing his eyes at the hordes of the strangely dressed (and barely dressed), painted faces all merging into one colored blur. “How are they still  _standing_?” 

Éowyn’s responding laugh is distracted, and so is her gaze. She’s searching the crowds for Faramir, exchanging craned-neck glances for checks down at her phone screen, apparently less concerned about the hordes of surely dehydrated (and mostly intoxicated) young adults than her brother seems to be. 

“They’re hardly kids,  Éomer, some of them are your age. The rest of them are my age, or…a few years younger, maybe. And I’m sure they’re fine. Now, come on. Theodred and Faramir are around here somewhere.” With that, his sister pushes him on in front of her, one slender (but strong) hand firmly between his shoulders, steering him through the crowds. He grumbles about “owing him” as she uses his bulk to separate the crowds, peering around his side to steer them through. 

Unfortunately for both of them, he has to shout her name a couple of times before she pushes him straight into the petite brunette standing just below the stage where Theodred is about to perform. (To her credit, the girl only looks up at him with semi-startled wide grey eyes, plants her feet, and grasps her phone a little more tightly, seeming to prepare for the worst.) Luckily, the combination of  Éomer digging his heels into the ground and  Éowyn peering around his shoulder to see what has him so alarmed pulls them both up short, and leaves the girl unhurt…and much too close for comfort, all long dark lashes and bright grey eyes, and a smile that’s pressing tiny dimples into soft. sun-kissed cheeks. 

“Lothiriel!” Eowyn says, voices suddenly brighter than it had been a moment before. “There you are!” And suddenly, he knows just who he’s looking at: Faramir and Boromir’s youngest cousin from Dol Amroth, the one he’d met last (and only briefly) when she had been no more than thirteen. 

She certainly wasn’t thirteen anymore, and she was  _startlingly_ pretty. 

His sister has never been much of one for hugs, but she throws an arm around Lothiriel’s shoulder with such ease that he knows they’ve spent more time together than he’s been aware of. 

“This is my brother,” Eowyn says. “His name is Eomer, and he makes for wonderful human crowd control, in case you ever need a hand.” 

“So I saw,” Lothiriel replies, still smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Normally, he’d roll his eyes and make some comment about not counting on it, but he’s been alarmingly disarmed by her smile, and the thought of her hand pressing on his back to steer him through festival crowds has him wishing she’d just look away. As usual, it’s his sister who saves him. 

“Have you seen Faramir?” She asks, drawing away from Lothiriel to peer toward the wings of the stage. 

“He went to help with some emergency or other,” Lothiriel replies, waving her hand. “Something about microphones. He’ll be back in a-…” 

“There he is!” And with that, she’s off, and if Faramir’s smile is any indication as she walks toward him, she’s beaming. 

“Second,” Lothiriel finishes lamely, shakes her head enough to topple the already-sliding flower crown embracing her dark curls. He notices there’s a scattering of freckles across her knuckles as she pushes it back into place.   
“I hope you won’t think me too presumptuous for asking,” she says, looking up at him with something sweet and shy but almost playful in her eyes, “But I could actually use a little help with these crowds. If you think you could save me from being knocked over by another drunken concert-goer, that is.”

He can’t help but grin in a way he hasn’t grinned in a long time, liking a little too much the way the shyness slowly melts from her eyes, softens the politeness of her smile. 

“Just try not to steer me into knocking people over, myself,” he says and has to stifle a smile (how could he explain it to her?) when she lifts a half-empty water bottle to her lips. “And I’d be happy to.”

(She decides she likes the way her stomach flips at his smile. He decides he likes the blush that’s crept up into her cheeks. And, to the side of the stage, Eowyn nudges Faramir’s side with your elbow. “Told you.”) 


	3. All the Pretty Horses (Teacher x Student AU)

He remembered that she had been a last-minute addition as she stifled a yawn, and he stifled a spark of annoyance. Had it been anyone else, he might have called them out on it: this class started early, and they knew when they signed up for it. But if he was remembering correctly, Lothiriel Prince  _hadn’t_. There had been some mix up with her credits, and she’d needed to take a class she hadn’t been planning on, maybe hadn’t even  _chosen_. Her addition to the class had taken place so late, he couldn’t imagine there were many openings elsewhere that would have fit her schedule. 

And to her credit, the girl had been on time to every class, she’d shown up to every class, and she showed more interest than he might have expected. She was bright and gentle, even if she did let the horses push her around a bit more than he’d like. She was quiet, too, more soft-spoken than any student he’d ever had before, but  _clever_. Her answers were quick, and not without their tinge of playfulness that seemed to break straight through any hint of reserve. 

He’d seen her sneaking peppermints to Firefoot more than once. 

And even ( _especially_?) sleepy-eyed and yawning, she was…beautiful. 

He had tried not to notice it, tried not to look at her at first, but it was like trying not to look at the sun. Even without looking, he’d noticed her from the start: dark hair gathered back in bun or ponytail or braid, always with curls escaping to frame her face, curls she’d brush back with the flat of her wrist in the midst of grooming a horse, or tuck resolutely back into a riding helmet. Grey eyes that seemed to shift in changing light like the surface of the sea. 

It was ridiculous. It was terrible. He shouldn’t be noticing her at all, not like  _this_. Not in the way that left him struggling not to think about dancing grey eyes as he went to sleep at night. It was every cliche in the world: she was his student, she was his teacher. There was a power dynamic. It was every kind of wrong. 

He was an adult, he was a professional, he had been teaching for years. A fair number of his students had been attractive, and he’d never had this reaction. He could handle this. He could. 

He had to. 

* * *

“Do horses actually  _like_ being awake this early?” 

She wasn’t sure when she’d struck up the habit of sneaking peppermints to the giant dapple-grey, but she couldn’t stop now: she was sure he wouldn’t let her, and the upset stomp of hooves would surely give her away. He had told them all at the beginning of the year that Firefoot was  _particular_ , to be careful of their fingers, had - - in fact - - told them it would probably best not to go near the horse at all, without him there. But Firefoot had never seemed to have a problem with Lothiriel. On the contrary, he was all gentleness: whiskery brush of lips on her palm as he took the offered treats, liquid eyes that seemed to understand what she was saying. But his only answer was a blink of long lashes…and then a sudden flick of the ears and a happy sort of whinny that could only mean one thing. 

Biting her lip, Lothiriel turned slowly from the stall door to find her impossibly tall, impossibly good-looking instructor watching her with lifted eyebrows. Waiting for a scolding, she ducked her head, looked up at him from under long, dark lashes….but couldn’t help but giggle when Firefoot’s nose bumped her shoulder, then against her ear, ruffling her hair. 

“Who told you peppermints were his favorite?” 

“Oh….” Showing the horse empty hands, she nonetheless reached up to stroke the velvety nose. “Just….your sister. We sat next to each other in lecture during our first year.” 

“Ah,” he says, striding forward to stand on the other side of Firefoot’s neck, reaching up to ruffle the silvery mane. “Eowyn. I should have known.” 

A moment’s awkward silence passed, in which Lothiriel realized they’d never spoken alone before, not really. There were other students around, of course - - in other stalls - - but none of them were  _here_. 

“You’ve, ah— really improved, this semester. I’ll admit, I’m impressed.” 

“Than you.” Her voice was soft, as always, and she leaned her shoulder against the stall as she spoke, looking up at Firefoot rather than at Eomer. And she was blushing, the soft pink spreading across her nose, coloring both cheeks. She bit her lip, and it cost Eomer every bit of self control not to watch her do it. “Eowyn told me I should take your class. It was this or History of Bowling, you know.” That spark of playfulness is there again, bright in grey eyes. “I almost chose the bowling, but she convinced me.” 

Eomer chuckled, not sure whether he should thank Eowyn or strangle her, next time he saw her. “I’m glad she did.” 

As it turned out, he needn’t have worried about Eowyn at all. It had been himself he’d had to worry about, all along. 

Her eyes met his, though. Slightly startled, more than a little shy, but with a smile playing at the corners of her mouth that was doing nothing for his efforts _not to look at her lips, damnit._  From far away, the sound of her name from outside, beckoning her on to the next class. It made both of them jump. But, soft though it was, there were last words almost whispered on that soft voice: “I am, too.” 

She was gone before he could see the blush deepen. 

“Firefoot,” he muttered, combing fingers through the horse’s forelock. “You’ve never gotten me in so much trouble before, old friend.” 

If he didn’t know better, he’d say the horse looked pleased. 

* * *

The semester came to an end two months and plenty of similar moments since: the time she had fallen from her spooked horse and his heart had jumped into his throat before he’d jumped down from Firefoot to make sure she was okay, brushed dirt and dead leaves from her sleeves before he realized just how close they were and stopped abruptly. The time she’d brought coffee and muffins for the whole class, and their fingers had brushed as she’d handed him his styrofoam cup and her cheeks had flushed again. The softness of her voice any time she spoke to him. 

It was no use, of course. She’d be long gone by now, back to Dol Amroth. Surely she and Eowyn would soon be planning the trip he’d heard his sister discussing.

For her part Lothiriel found herself….lingering. Not quite meaning to, but doing so nonetheless. Spending longer over Firefoot’s not-so-secret peppermints, taking longer to pack her bag just to grab a few more moments. Worst of all, she found herself missing half the things he said because she found herself more and more distracted. Distracted by everything: how his hands moved over the horses’ manes and legs and flanks, wondering how it would feel to have those hands in her hair, on her legs, and….well. She always stopped herself before it could go too far, before the thoughts would make her blush, but  _every_ time his eyes met hers,  she wondered if he knew. 

So even though the class had ended with the semester, even though she had graduated just last week, she found herself still lingering. Still found herself awake ridiculously early, driving from her apartment to the stables in the still-cool early morning air, now already flavored with the summer’s warmth. 

The aisles of stalls were still and quiet, except for the shift of hay nosed by horses, the occasional stomp of a hoof or soft  _hwhoof_ of breath. As she approached the last stall on the right, a silver-grey head waited for her, as though he had known she would come. Firefoot whickered as she approached, nosing for her hand as she unwrapped her first peppermint. 

“I thought you’d gone.” 

In the early morning light, she could hardly see his eyes, but they still took her breath away. The intensity of them, the way he seemed simply to see her in a way so few ever did: not as the daughter of someone wealthy and powerful, not as a prize or a decoration or a rung on a social ladder. As….as something to be desired, yes, but….as something  _precious_. Something he’d deemed too dear to have, and yet…

He took a step closer, making her fight the ridiculous, jittery desire to take a responding step back until he stood just in front of her, once again on the other side of Firefoot’s neck. For several long moments they simply looked at one another around the horse’s head, and for several long moments Lothiriel felt as though she couldn’t breathe. 

Suddenly, every ounce of confidence, of bravery, of determination she had come here with vanished like morning mist. She wanted to make a joke of it, she wanted to turn and run, she wanted….she wanted to step forward and bury her face against his chest and…

A single curl of dark hair tugged free of her braid, fell forward to brush her cheek. But before she could reach up to tuck it away, he reached out instead, and her breath caught. Still and startled as a doe, she looked up at him, biting her lip as the pads of his fingers grazed her cheek, tucked the lock of hair behind her ear with so much gentleness, she thought she might cry. 

Whatever silent moment that had hung between them had shattered, leaving her stammering to fill the silence. “I….I came to um…I came because…” He was still looking at her, though, just looking at her, and God, how is she supposed to concentrate while he’s doing that? While his fingers linger against the curve of her jaw before he draws his hand away again? While they’re still standing so close? 

“Would you like to go get coffee?” He asks, and she blinks up at him, surprise just parting her soft lips (and this time he doesn’t stop himself from looking, and the drift of his eyes makes her heart leap into her throat). “With me. Right now. Would you like that?” 

He thinks he’d never sleep again, if it meant she’d just keep smiling at him like that. 

“I’d like that.” 

In his stall, Firefoot gives a quick toss of his head, stomps his foot on the ground, because Lothiriel means two peppermints and he’s only had one. 

But if they didn’t know better, Lothiriel and Eomer would both say there was a look of satisfaction in those wide, liquid eyes. Something that seemed to say, “Well,  _finally_.” 


	4. You Just Feel Really Good...Soft and Warm (Both are Drunk and Happy)

Her knock on Boromir’s door is answered by a resounding “COME IN!” bellowed by at least six different voices. When the call dies down, there’s still music and laughter and talking to be heard. For a moment, all she can do is stare at the door, before turning slowly to look at a very amused Eowyn. 

“I’m not sure I want to ‘ _come in_ ,’“ she whispers, but Eowyn only grins and rolls her eyes before she shoves the door open, into….

Well, Lothiriel’s not exactly sure  _what_ they’ve walked into, only that she’s sure almost everyone she knows on God’s green earth is inside: each of her brothers, even Elphir, for starters. Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli. Boromir and Theodred and Faramir. And Eomer. 

Of course he’s here, she thinks, trying to steady the rushing beat of her heart back to a steadier pace. She could have guessed he would be here. Still, the sight of him narrows out everyone else in the room for a moment, until it’s just his eyes meeting hers through all the rest of them, and oh….when did she become such a silly love struck little fool? 

Then again, isn’t she allowed to be a love-struck little fool, these days? Now that they weren’t trying to not-tell their family and friends? Now that they had suffered the worst of her brothers’ suspicions or teasing? 

She had better, she decides. She had better be allowed, because now he’s shouldering his way through the rest of them, and all she can hear is her silly, lovestruck pulse in her ears. 

“Hi,” She manages to say when he’s there right in front of her, the erratic beat of her heart only getting worse at the quirked brow, the soft smile that’s only ever hers. 

His arm is around her waist before she can blink, pulling her in for a kiss that’s both blindingly warm and much, much too chaste for her liking. “Hi.” 

Breathless and blushing, she hides her face against his shoulder for a moment, trying to regain her sense of the rest of the world…and of the rest of the people, at least some of whom, she’s sure, are currently looking right at them. 

“Amrothos is no longer pretending to gag, if that’s what you’re hiding from,” he murmurs, and smooths a hand through her hair as she looks up. 

“For now,” she mutters, much to Eomer’s amusement, glaring daggers at the mentioned brother, who (of course) resumed as soon as she looked at him. 

She can feel Eomer’s chuckle, but she can feel the kiss he presses to her temple even more. 

“Come on, let’s get you a drink.” 

* * *

She doesn’t know what time it is when her brothers leave, or when Merry and Pippin fall asleep on the kitchen floor, only that she’s sweetly warm and pleasantly dizzy, and content simply to stretch on her cousin’s couch like a cat and listen to the hum of voices from the patio: Eowyn’s weaving in and out of the deeper tones of Faramir, Boromir, Theodred, and Eomer. She had been out there too, not that long ago, until Erchirion and Amrothos finally decided it was time for them to go, and she’d come in to hug them each goodbye on their way out the door. But the couch had looked simply too inviting to pass up. 

Sleep was mere moments away when she heard the door open and close again, but a breath away as something warm and heavy eased onto the couch with her, half on top of her. 

“What’s this?” she murmurs sleepily, eyes still closed as she slowly lifts a hand to drag it through a tawny mane of hair as Eomer pulls her even closer, nuzzles into her neck. He still smells of the outdoors, and of the cigars that Boromir had bought, and there’s still the coolness of the autumn night on his skin. 

His chuckle rumbles through her, seems to surround her, and she thinks she’d drown in it if she could. Or in the feeling of his hand just beneath her shirt’s hem, warm against her skin. Or in the brief kisses on her neck, her collarbone, before he rests his head on her again. 

“You just feel really good,” he says, words just a little bit slurred by the drinks and by the hour. His nose nuzzles against her neck again, making her giggle and arch up from the couch just a little. “Soft and warm…” 

“Mmmm,” she hums, trailing fingers up and down the arm thrown around her. “You feel really good, too, you know.” 

This chuckle is deeper and slower, and somehow she knows that if they were alone, if they were less sleepy, the night wouldn’t have ended just yet. But all he says is “Good,” and in what might only have been moments, she’s sure he’s asleep, breath warm against her neck. She follows not long after, sleep overtaking her at last, stealing in even around Eomer’s protective arms. 

* * *

They don’t notice the steady tick of the clock further on into morning, or the opening and closing of the patio door, or the laughter of their friends filing in from the night. 

“Think we should wake them?” Eowyn asks, lightly nudging her brother’s foot. 

“No, let ‘em sleep,” Theodred replies. “It’d be a pity to wake them.” 

“Do you think she can  _breathe_?” 

This last from Eowyn pulls quickly-hushed laughter from the rest of them, a fond shake of Boromir’s head. 

“I don’t think Thiri would still be there if she couldn’t,” he says. “She once smacked me in the face when she was younger. In her sleep, mind. And that was just for trying to lift her from the window seat she’d fallen asleep on. Let them stay.” 

As though in response, a shift from the couch: Lothiriel murmuring Eomer’s name, his arm tightening around her waist. 

“As I said,” whispered Theodred into the hush. “It'd be a pity to wake them.”


	5. "This is Exactly What it Looks Like"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice and short and sweet. Hope you enjoy!

“You’re sure there’s no one else home?” He asks, pulling her closer to his side in the embrace of her window-seat. His words are just a breath against her ear, enough to make her bite her lip and catch her breath before she can respond.

“Surer than sure,” she whispers, shivering as his hand slides beneath the hem of her shirt.

There’s really very little reason for them to be sneaking around like this, hiding their relationship from friends and family as though they’d ever truly needed to. Except for the fact that their friends and families would be smug beyond all telling, and her brothers would tease until it was unbearable….after they were finished puffing their chests in shows of brotherly protection like a bunch of swans.

And they’re still so new. Their relationship is a brand-new thing, they spend their time discovering each other: the pads of his fingers outlining the shell of her ear, her own lightly scratching through his beard, the breathless and gentle tracing of lips on skin that builds in heat and in intensity until she’s climbing into his lap, her own slender legs straddling his hips, his hands on the soft thighs bared by her skirt. She’s smiling against his lips, her hands buried in his hair.

“Lothiriel,” he rumbles, so low she can feel the vibration of it in her bones, and she giggles, giggles turning to a sigh as his lips kiss a trail along her jaw to the spot just behind her ear he’s only recently discovered she likes. The one that makes her fingers curl in his hair, fingernails gliding against his scalp.

But just as his hand slides up her thigh to her hip, just as dips his head to press an open-mouthed kiss to her neck, her door flies open with a bang and a “Lothiriel, you’ll never - - -” and then, immediately following: “Holy shit.”

It’s a very good thing his reflexes are good, his hand on her hip easily becoming a bracing arm around her waist, or else she might have fallen sideways. As it is, she manages to tug just a bit too hard on his hair in her effort to extricate her hands, looking at Eomer in a mix of panic and apology.

In the doorway stands Amrothos, hand open and phone on the ground by his feet, staring at them wide-eyed.

“This is….!” But though she starts in a voice made shrill by her surprise, Lothiriel soon realizes the error in denial: her current position doesn’t exactly make it easy, and anyway…does she really care who knows? “Exactly what it looks like,” she declares with a haughty little lift of her chin. Eomer groans, lets his head fall to her shoulder. “Now go away, Amrothos,” she continues, reaching across Eomer’s bent form to grab a throw pillow, giving its name new meaning in its airborne path at her brother’s gaping face. “And do learn to knock next time, won’t you?”


	6. Who Are You Watching?

“Who have you been watching all this time?” 

Eomer likes to pride himself on the fact of his awareness: had he been the sort to be easily surprised, he would have been dead long ago. But he had not heard Faramir’s approach. (Later, he would comfort himself with the thought that Faramir had learned to walk unheard through thorn and thicket, that any man who could move silently through a wood could move more silently in a hall of Gondorian stone.) 

“Watching?” But he can feel a slight burning ‘round his neck and knows he must be turning red. Because he has indeed been watching someone. Dark-haired and grey eyed, whirling between three men of similar coloring, and laughing all the while. She moves with a lightness he does not think he has ever seen before, as though the land has no hold upon her feet. 

“Come now, Eomer, do you think no one would notice?” 

Eomer grumbles as he takes the cup that Faramir offers him, busies himself with a large gulp of ale. Surprisingly good ale, in fact, and he finds himself thankful it isn’t more Gondorian wine. 

“That lady there,” he says at last, sure that Faramir will not abandon the subject until an answer is given. “With the pearls in her hair.” 

To Eomer’s surprise, Faramir’s mouth twitches at its corners, and the man coughs into his hand. When he lowers it, the beginnings of the smile are gone, but there’s something in his eyes that Eomer mislikes. 

“The girl in the silver and blue?” 

Eomer finds that he does not wish to answer questions. “Yes.” 

“Ah. Then you have found the Lady Lothiriel of Dol Amroth,” he says, and the smile is returning now, making Eomer wish more and more that Faramir had stayed where he was. “The daughter of Prince Imrahil,” he says, smile only growing as Eomer’s dismay shows clear upon his face. “....and my cousin.” 

Eomer nearly chokes upon his next sip of ale, both for the words and the unfortunate timing of a single moment: one of the dark-haired men bending close to the young lady’s ear, and a pair of bright grey eyes flying up to meet Eomer’s across a sea of dancing figures. 

“You would make a fine match, I think,” Faramir says, so mildly that Eomer can find no objection in it. “Certainly Imrahil likes you well enough, and she is the closest to a princess in all of Gondor...a fit match for a king of Rohan, one must assume.” Eomer’s silence reigns over them both for mere moments, as Faramir sips from his own cup. “Why not ask her to dance?” 

Already the musicians have struck up another tune, and the young lady - Lothiriel, Imrahil’s daughter - is caught up in the arms of a young man near as large as Eomer, tossed lightly into the ear. From here, he can see her lips form a name in laughing protest, though he cannot hear her voice. 

“It seems she has dance partners enough,” he said at last. 

“Her brothers? Aye, she teased them this morning about their skills at the dance. They solemnly swore that she would not lack for partners the whole night, and have since chased off all others but themselves.” 

“Then asking her to dance would be impossible.” 

“Oh,” Faramir says, “I think they would make an exception.” 

“And why is that?” 

Eomer, turning to face Faramir, missed the next lift of a dark-haired head above the crowd, the gleam of searching grey eyes. Faramir, however, did not....nor had he missed every other glance his cousin had thrown. More subtly done than Eomer’s, surely, but not unnoticed by those who knew her. 

Faramir chuckles, claps a hand on Eomer’s shoulder, and nods across the hall to Eowyn, who has already begun making her way toward them both. 

“My cousin seems to have been watching you, too.” 

He leaves Eomer open-mouthed in surprise, turning to catch the next glance of the girl with the pearls in her hair. This time, he catches himself and closes his mouth, feels himself smile before he knows what he’s doing, and dips his head just a little. Across the room, she blushes, but dips into a little curtsy that is more playful than a thing of courtesy. 

Eomer drains his cup with one long last pull, sets it down upon a nearby table, and shoulders his way through the crowd to ask for his night’s first dance. 


	7. First Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels like the beginning of a longer fic I haven't written yet. Guess we'll see what happens.

There is a dog standing in front of him with its hackles raised and its teeth bared, and it is such an unexpected thing that Eomer finds himself merely standing there, staring at it. It is large, it is advancing, but it bears a leather collar. A great, dark, shaggy dog, near as tall as a man. 

Will the battles never cease, he wonders? 

But before he can so much as reach for his sword, a soft female voice calls out a command, and the dog’s ears flick back. It’s lips lowers over its teeth. 

The soft female voice speaks again and the dog lowers itself on its haunches, though its eyes do not leave Eomer - - not for a moment. Then, from the shadows of the courtyard, a young woman appears, lays her hand upon the dog’s great shoulder. 

“As my poor friend cannot speak to ask your pardon, I fear that duty falls to me.” 

She is young, though no child - - - a young woman with long dark hair that falls in curls down to her waist. Beside the dog, she is merely a slip of a thing, slender as a water-reed, and her voice is soft. So soft, in fact, it seems impossible she could have commanded the dog with no more than two words, and yet it has not moved from her side. Though, despite her words, he does not look as if he would ask forgiveness, speaking or no. 

“He was my cousin’s, you see. He raised this dog from a pup. When he died, the dog found solace in my uncle’s company, for they were much alike. But my uncle did not live to see the end of battle. Now I am the one he knows most well, and so he follows me.” 

“Then you have a fierce defender, lady. But I would keep a close eye upon him. I mean you no harm. Yet it seemed as though he meant harm to me.” 

She strokes the dog’s head with a gentle hand, looks down upon it with sad eyes. 

“His world has changed,” she says, quite simply. “He has not yet learned how to live in it.” When she looks at Eomer again, there is something familiar in her face, though he cannot say what. Feminine lines constructing a face whose likeness he has seen in a different form, upon the fields of war. 

She is someone’s daughter, then, but whose? 

“If you will not accept apology on his behalf, will you accept my own? I admit, I was paying him but little mind. I did not hear your step, or I would have called him to me before you came.” 

He is out of his depth, it seems. She is all Gondorian, that much is plain, all pretty words and courtly phrases. And she is the only thing so much untouched by war that he has seen in many days. For there is sadness, yes, and even grief within her eyes, but a gentleness and trust and innocence that could not have withstood more than learned-of loss. 

“I would be glad to, my lady. But I do not know who apologizes.” 

“For that, I must apologize. We have not been introduced. By all rights, I suppose I should not be speaking with you further.” 

It is a curious thing to say, he thinks, but then Gondorian manner and customs of propriety are all but foreign to him, still. 

“Do you need an introduction to speak with me?” 

“Oh, yes.” But her smile calls dimples into her cheeks, and there is something in her eyes that speaks of a will beyond softness. “But as it is only the three of us, and certainly my protector would have introduced us, had he been blessed with human speech, I suppose that I must make my own. I am Lothiriel, daughter of Imrahil. I came with my mother and my brothers from Dol Amroth,” 

“You’re  _Imrahil’s_ daughter.” 

She nods, and it is the same grave dip of the head her father might offer. The eyes are like her father’s, her nose and her chin, though the smile is unfamiliar - - a gift from her mother, perhaps. 

“And you are Eomer, King of Rohan.” 

Of course she knows who he is. It seems that everyone does, now. He isn’t sure he likes it. In fact, he’s not yet entirely convinced that he likes the girl, either. He knows he does not like the dog, who is still eyeing him with a guard-dog’s gaze. She looks too much as though she is examining him, measuring him up, adding the parts together, and he cannot know what whole she makes of him. 

He’s only certain it can’t possibly be the right one, though why it rankles so is beyond his reckoning. 


	8. The Little Mermaid AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of a weird conglomeration of the original story, Disney, touches of Tolkien, and my own little twists. But it was a heck of a lot of fun to write!

This time, he is certain of it: there were a pair of eyes floating above the surface of the water, grey as the sky before a storm. But as soon as he turned to draw Aragorn’s attention, the eyes had vanished. Not a ripple remained upon the surface of the sea. 

“The water plays its tricks, my friend,” Aragorn said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t think too much of it.” 

But he spent the rest of the evening scanning the waves, anyway. Though he did not see those eyes again, they watched him, nonetheless. 

* * *

She knew the storm was coming before they ever could have guessed it. She could feel it in the wind and in the water, in the very blood inside her. The temperatures change, the sea’s surface alters, but it is in so small a degree that the humans on their ship would not have noticed it. 

Until it is too late. 

The ship is tossed like a toy upon the waves, caught up in a roaring sea, and she watches in horror as the man with the golden hair - - - the one she had been so fascinated by - - - is hit by a a piece of rigging and topples over the side. 

He does not emerge. 

Beneath the water all is still. Still and quiet, but she can feel every pulse of the water, can see where human eyes fail, and she sees him like a beacon through the murky water. It takes her only moments to reach him, only several strokes of her powerful tail, but it is harder by far to bring him to the surface. He is heavy and limp, unmoving, nothing but weight in arms unused to such burden. But the water makes him lighter, and her tail is good and strong, and soon enough she has him above the water’s surface. (Dragging him to land is the hardest effort yet, pulling him safe from the water’s grasp harder still: the drag of her tail on wet sand, one arm around his chest, the other trying to pull them both further.) 

She does not leave until the storm is over, until she is sure that he breathes again. Until the shout of “Eomer!” draws her head up, sharply: there are human-figures coming closer, bearing lanterns, and she knows that she must not be seen. 

And so she disappears, back into the water, and watches from behind a rock as her human is collected by strong arms and born away. 

It aches her heart to think it might be the last she’ll see of him. 

* * *

A pair of sea-grey eyes had been looking down at him, softer in the pale pre-dawn light that had taken the place of storm clouds. Sea grey eyes and a voice that had been singing to him. But as he blinks, wincing at the thudding ache in his head and his lungs and his limbs, she is gone. 

“Who was she?” He asks as Aragorn, who is mercifully unharmed but for a cut upon his brow. A brow that furrows, now. “The woman. The one who saved me.” 

Aragorn’s brow furrows more deeply, and for several moments he is silent. 

“There was no one there, Eomer. The waves must have pushed you to shore. It is a miracle you are so unharmed! Perhaps your head was hit.” 

But the voice is still ringing in his ears. 

* * *

The sea-witch’s cave is so dark and gloomy that her courage fails, and for a moment she thinks of putting it all behind her: every dream she’d ever had of walking on land, every memory of the man she had saved from the sea, every strain of remembered music from the boat deck. 

Whether it is longing or her own sheer force of will that moves her through the entryway, she does not know. Perhaps it is only a fit of madness, nothing more. 

But soon enough, she’s leaving with a potion bottle in her hands, the prize she had for giving up her voice. The bottle, and the sea-witch’s cruel warning: it will hurt as though knives are driving through your feet with every step. Yet you will dance beyond any human’s talent. 

(The young mermaid did not know what feet were, nor what that pain might feel like. Yet, had she known, she would not have turned away.) 

Up again, up to the surface, to the little cove where she had pulled her water-logged rescue, and in the shallow waters she drinks of the potion. 

The pain is  intense, and immediate, ripping through her like a fork of lightning. She cried out, though no sound rose up from her lips, and with a gasp (and feet, she had seen them, she had seen…!) she fell, unconscious, to the sand. 

* * *

When she wakes, she is not below the water, and she cannot speak. 

So it had not been a dream. 

She lifts her leg and wiggles her feet, and smiles in utmost delight, terrifying pain forgotten. In a few moments more, her peace is disturbed: two women bustle in, speaking to her, asking questions that Lothiriel wants to answer but cannot give voice to. 

When they fold the blankets back and help her from the bed, she makes to stand…but pain lances up from her heels to her knees to her hips, traces the outline of brand new legs, and her knees fold in on themselves. The women squawk and chirp like birds, lift her up by the elbows until she manages to stand, determined to ignore the shooting pain. Soon enough, they have her dressed in strange new clothes that seem both to cling too closely and fall too loosely, all in ways she doesn’t understand. (She has never worn such things before, there is no reason to, beneath the waves!) When they are finished dressing her, she is led through many halls and many rooms to one where two men and a woman wait for her. One of the men is tall, his dark hair and beard touched with notes of silver. Beside him stands the woman, her hair as dark as the deepest ocean. The other man…! She stops there in the doorway, staring, for it is him! The man with the golden hair who had fallen from the ship deck, the one she had struggled to save! Safe and dry and well and whole.

It has made every painful step from the first room to this one worth the pain.

“Do not be afraid,” the woman says, stepping forward to take Lothiriel’s hands in hers. “We mean you no harm. You were found washed up on the shore, and so we brought you here. I am Arwen, and this is my husband Aragorn.” The dark-haired man nods, the sternness of his features softening into a smile. “And this is our friend, Eomer. He is the one who brought you here.” Her eyes meet his over Arwen’s shoulder, and for a moment the entire world seems to stand still, or else it is all spinning around her, much too fast to see. For the eyes that meet her own are so intense in their focus, the look on his face is so strange…

“Won’t you tell us your name?” Arwen asks, the softness of her voice drawing Lothiriel sharply back from her thoughts. For a moment - - - just a moment - - - she forgets that a voice is what she has traded for the legs that bear her up. And, so, though she attempts it, no sound comes forth. Just the forming of her lips into the fragments of her name. Unhappily, she shakes her head and lifts her fingers to her throat. 

“She cannot speak?” 

The golden-haired man - - Eomer - - asks it, and she cannot understand why his face looks so strange, suddenly. As though there is something more that he cannot understand. 

* * *

They are all kind to her. They learn to communicate, one way or another. They with words and she with gestures. She cannot write in the language of the humans, can only trace out the merpeople’s symbols, and she does not think they would know what such things mean. 

She learns that Arwen and Aragorn rule over the land beside the sea, a broad swath of land that runs back and back to the mountains one can see from the high windows. Eomer rules, too, though his land is further off. To the North, they tell her, a land of grass and plains (whatever plains might be). And, though Arwen and Aragorn are kind, their ruling leaves them little time to spend with their strange new guest. 

Some hours she spends on her own, wandering the halls and gardens, exploring the world of the land that she has only ever heard tales of. Always, though, there is the voice of the sea witch in the back of her mind: the limits and the constraints of her trade of voice for legs. 

If he is to marry another, she shall become sea-foam. 

If he does not love her, if he leaves this land, she will have to pay the price of it. And there is no way to tell him. 

So she seeks him out instead, spends time in his company, learns to make him smile. He tells her of his country, and even teaches her to ride. (Step by step, first teaching her not to fear the giant creatures with their heavy hooves and tossing heads, then lifting her into the saddle and setting off at a gentle walk.) 

Sometimes they walk along the shore of the sea, and in her joy she dances through the lapping water, though each step pierces her foot as though she dances on a forest of swords and spears. 

Every day seems to bring them closer, then to push them away once again, just like the tide. Once, he kisses her hand and she feels it like a strike of lightning. Another time they dance together, at a party where the curious stares all fall on her. And each turn pulls them closer, each swell of the music bringing them together like a swell of the ocean bringing driftwood to shore. 

And then the next day brings a letter from his councilors, reminding him that he has gone away to find a bride, reminding him of all he stands to lose, and for a full day afterward he is brooding and quiet and nothing seems to cheer him.  

It make her feel hope ebbing from her, slowly. Hope that he remembers her, knows who she is, could ever love her. 

Hope that her gamble will not have been in vain. 

* * *

She had been nothing but pale skin and dark hair and strange jewelry upon the shore, when he had found her. He had wrapped his cloak around her and rushed her back, hoped Aragorn’s skill at healing might save her. 

A shipwreck, they had all decided. It must have been. Somehow she had survived without a scratch and then washed up on shore. Somehow, she was still breathing. How the waves might have torn away her clothing but left the loops of pearls around her neck, the strange rings upon her fingers, no one could quite say. 

But it was not the state of finding her, or the strange jewelry she wore, that truly struck him. No, it was her eyes. As soon as she had walked into the room, those eyes had sent him spinning, certain he had seen them before. He remembered the sunny day that had come before the storm, remembered thinking he saw eyes like those above the water, remembered a voice that sang him through both pain and storm. 

And yet, she could not sing. She could not even speak. And he could not explain the disappointment that coursed through him at the realization. 

But she was sweet and shy and smart and charming, even without words, and soon he found that he looked forward to the times he would find her peering around a door or wandering the halls. When she would join him in her quiet way, and fill up the empty days. She listened when he spoke, and she told him all she could, in her own way, and day by day he found himself wishing she could speak. Wishing that she could truly be whatever creature had pulled him from the sea. 

He is running out of time, though, he knows that well. Soon, he will have to return to the land he longs for. Soon, he will have to choose a wife from among the scores of noblewomen he has met, for Rohan needs a queen. 

And yet, at night, he dreams of grey eyes that are by turns laughing and mournful. He dreams of the way she had danced in the surf of the sea, of the way the skin of her hand had felt pressed to his lips, the taste of salt upon her skin. 

If only she could speak, he thought. If she could speak and tell them who she was, maybe there would be a chance. 

But he was running out of time. 

He couldn’t know that she was, too. 

* * *

It takes weeks for preparations to be made for their departure, and she tries to cling to each day, to stretch it out, to make it last. But sunset after sunset comes with insistent quickness, and in that time she sees very little of him. 

It is Arwen who notices her agitation, her sadness, and though there was no way for her to know its cause, she was quick to offer comfort. Yet any comfort was only fleeting: he was leaving, and she had failed. She would never see him again, and when he left what would she be? Scattered foam upon the sea! 

But perhaps it was better, she thought, curled up upon the rock she once had clung to, when she’d watched him carried off. Her knees are drawn up to her chin, her arms wrapped loose around them, fingers grasping her feet. Her feet! Better that she should have offered her eyes than her voice, she thought. For it was the singing he remembered, she had heard him say as much. He had told her of herself, and never known. Would never know, surely, if he could speak such things and not remember her by sight! 

They have been calling her by a made-up name, and she hears it on the wind in a familiar voice. It almost makes her wish she could jump from this stone and find her tail again, swim into some current that might drag her back and back, back to her birthday and the tradition that had brought her to the surface. 

Make it all new, all as though it had never happened. Let her not have seen him or his ship, let her never have known he lived at all. (Yet then, she thought, she would not have been there in the storm. She could not have saved him. How could she regret that he lived because of that one simple choice to lift her head above the water?) 

He is calling to her, and so she slips without thinking into the water. Here, her feet don’t hurt her. Here the motion of her legs is as easy as the flipping of her fin had been. 

With her head peeking up above the ripples of the water, she  _swims_ back to shore. For she had taken no boat to the rock, as he must have thought (he looks so surprised!) but brought herself to it by her own arms and legs. 

* * *

A pair of grey eyes float above the surface of the water, grey as the sky before a storm, and he feels the air pressed from his lungs as though squeezed by a vice. 

Those eyes. It’s those eyes again, the eyes of the face he now knows so well, and the astonishment is all-consuming. How could he not have seen it? How could he not have known? 

But as she lifts herself up from the water (as he tries his best not to linger on the way her clothing clings to her waist, her hips, her legs) he sees it clearly: the same face, all wet hair and grey eyes, lingering over him as he woke as though from one dream to another. He saw the grey eyes following the ship he had fallen from. 

He sees it, and he knows. 

“You,” he says as she approaches, in a voice gone rough. It must startle her, for she stops before she can come any closer, looks at him with wary eyes. “It’s you.” 

The hope that she feels building isn’t bearable: it will tear her apart like knives, if she lets it. It will tear her all to pieces. But he’s still walking toward her, slowly, as though afraid to frighten her. He’s reaching for her, fingers brushing along her cheek, his gaze upon her eyes. 

“Isn’t it? It’s you. It always was. You pulled me from the sea.” 

Oh. Oh, it might pull her apart anyway, this hope! Perhaps this is a dream and she shall wake, just to have to watch him go. But he asks her “Didn’t you?” and she cannot lie. Not now, and not to him. And so she nods. Slow, small nods: one, two, three. Gazes up at him with eyes that plead for this all to be real. But his smile is more bright than she has ever seen it, and much closer, and he is moving closer still, wrapping an arm around her waist until she is pressed flush to him. 

“All this time, I’ve been trying to find you,” he says. All those morning rides, the conversations with those who lived along the shore, every spare moment he had dedicated to trying to find the girl who had saved him. All the time, it had been her. He shakes his head, leans forward to press his forehead against hers, smiles at the little gasp of breath that is the only sound he has ever heard from her lips. “I’ve been a fool,” he says, but she raises a hand to his mouth, presses her fingers to his lips and shakes her head. He removes his hand from her cheek, grasps her hand in his, kisses her fingertips and then lowers their hands to his chest. 

“I came to ask you a question,” he says. “One my councilors would surely object to, but I am resolved. Will you come back with me, to be my wife? Half a thousand women I have met while I’ve been here, but none of them have suited me half as well as you. Whoever you are, I want you by my side. You, and no one else.” 

* * *

Breaking spells is a powerful business, and not without an ounce of pain to temper all the sweetness. He speaks the words and her legs are seized with pain so terrible she cannot stand. But for his arms she would have tumbled to the ground, but he catches her against his chest, lowers them both to the sand. 

For several moments that seem to stretch to eternity, there is only pain. Pain that courses from her toes to her hips, makes her tremble violently within his arms. Pain that burns her throat as though she has swallowed hot coals straight from the hottest fire. His worried voice is but a whisper at her ear, a buzz she cannot understand until the clouds of pain have cleared. Until the stabbing fades into a throb that fades into a twinge that fades into…nothing. Into painlessness. Into legs that feel as though they have been only ever legs. 

When it has passed she shivers in his arms, and he wraps his cloak around her, bundling her close and lifting her as easily as he might lift a child. Cradled there, she can gaze upon his face, handsome even in its twists of worry. 

The first word she says is “Yes,” and in his surprise she feels his grip loosen, winds her arm more tightly around him until he regains his grasp. 

“You…” 

Slowly, carefully, he sets her down, and this time her legs take her weight with painless ease. 

“You can speak?” 

“I couldn’t,” she says, the words whispered against the rasp in her throat. “Not until now.” Each word comes more easily than the last, each one clearer and more sure, and the sound of her own voice makes her smile. 

“Tell me your name,” he says, a question and a demand and a plea all in one. “Tell me…” 

“I will tell you everything,” she says, “Though I…I am not sure you will believe me. It is a strange story. But…but my name is Lothiriel, and I think that I have loved you since first I saw you.” 

His smile is reward enough, but his kiss is something more. Soft and sweet but hungry, too, the press of his lips upon her so heady that she feels almost dizzy, nearly forgets that she must tell him the rest. 

When she does, his astonishment is greater even than it was when she had first spoken. But when the tale is done, he only shakes his head and kisses her again, strokes his hand over her still-damp hair. 

“My land is many leagues from here, a land of plains and lakes and rivers. Can you bear to live so far from the sea?” 

“If you are there,” she says, and means it. “If you are there, I can.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI, I literally didn't edit this at all because I'm Lazy. Maybe I'll get around to it another day? Maybe.


	9. Hogwarts AU (Slytherin!Lothiriel and Hufflepuff!Eomer)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cheated a lil bit and wrote this as though they had both graduated before the Battle of Hogwarts, so their House designations aren't as important as they could have been. But! Hopefully they shine through in some of their actions/motivations. I'd usually write Ravenclaw!Lothiriel and Gryffindor!Eomer, so thinking about what they might have been like in other Houses was a lot of fun!

In the end, Voldemort was nothing more than a man. A man whose body hit the floor of the Great Hall with a dry-sounding thud. And in the wake of that thud, there had been moments of long and disbelieving silence. But now it seemed the world was waking up again, waking up to death and destruction and injury, but to hope as well. The kind of hope the Wizarding World had not tasted since the night that Voldemort had tried (and failed) to kill the Potter boy. 

Lothiriel had Apparated into Hogsmeade with the other Mediwizards who had left Mungo’s at the first notice of trouble, had cast her share of defensive spells and curses at masked Death Eaters. Each time, she felt an unpleasant twinge in her stomach: had she walked to class with that one, once? Had she shared a cauldron in Potions Class? Were these the siblings or parents or children of people she had known? 

But the guilt had worn out quickly: there were too many injured, too many children injured, and indignant, righteous anger soon replaced every ounce. 

She had done what she could in the field, had seen the end of the battle, and now she stood in the rubble-strewn hall and wiped sweat and dust from her forehead. Her job wasn’t done, not yet.

The worst injuries had been treated as well as they could be, then sent on to St. Mungo’s. The injuries now were smaller: minor spell-damage, cuts, other injuries that could be cured with simple wand-work and vials of potions. And all the time, she had been keeping up an awful kind of mathematics, trying to keep track of the people most dear to her: her brothers (Amrothos, pale but grinning, sent back to St. Mungo’s an hour ago. Elphir giving her a hug before heading home to check on his wife and his son. Erchirion…so far, unaccounted for) her father (last seen directing the clearing of people and rubble). Faramir and Boromir, both injured, had been sent off to St. Mungo’s among the first wave of patients. 

It’s in the middle of this mental accounting that a familiar face - - tired, bloodied, but blessedly living - - appears in front of her, knocking one more number into place. A face she knew she might see, had been both hoping for and dreading their meeting. 

It knocks the air from her like a blow. 

But it is her job to attend to injuries, not to dwell upon the past or on faces that still make her heart race, so she makes him sit down and clears the blood from his face with a spell, attends to the cuts and scrapes and burns on his face, his neck, his hands, with salves and poultices and potions. And though they do not speak, his eyes follow her as she works, with the same sort of softness she’d only ever seen directed at her. 

Oh, she had missed him! Missed the weight of his hands in or over hers, the way her own seemed so small in comparison. 

“They took my sister to St. Mungo’s,” he tells her as she bandages his hands. “They wouldn’t let me go with her.” 

“I know,” she murmurs, though she doesn’t look up from her task, wonders who possibly could have stopped him: Gandalf, perhaps, or her father. Aragorn. “They won’t let anyone follow ‘til things settle down. Not even my father. My cousins are there, too. And my brother. ” 

“Erchirion.” 

“No,” she says, and she does look up, then, catches his eye and has to look away. “Amrothos. I haven’t…I haven’t seen Erchirion.” 

“I have,” he says. “They took him to St. Mungo’s. He wasn’t conscious, but he was breathing.” 

It makes her pause a moment, makes her catch her breath. All three brothers living and accounted for. Everyone she had been looking out for at least alive, if not undamaged: her father, her brothers, her cousins, Eowyn, Eomer. Her eyes flutter closed to hide the tears she’s been suppressing. 

She hears rather than sees him stand, feels strong arms wrap around her shoulders, pulling her close to a warm, broad chest. Her ear rests over a beating heart whose rhythm soothes her shaking breath, but he kisses her hair and it nearly starts the tears flowing. 

“I’m taking you home,” he tells her, his voice half words she can hear and understand, half a low rumble underneath her ear. “You’ve been here for hours. You need to rest.” 

“You’ve been watching me?” 

“Of course. Since you got here. I couldn’t let anything happen to you.” 

She thinks of the Death Eaters who had stumbled away from her by some well-timed spell, realizes they hadn’t been coincidences at all, and shivers against the warmth of him. His arms only wrap more tightly around her. 

“I already spoke to Aragorn,” he says. “They have enough mediwizards to be getting on with. Let me take you home.” 

She nods against his chest, unsure what “home” means, but following him anyway, exhaustion she hadn’t known she was carrying bearing down on her. 

Almost a year ago they had gone their separate ways, a war and sheer uncertainty between them. And now the war was gone, and they were here, and before she knew it she was standing in the bedroom of the house they had once shared. The one she had left, along with her engagement ring, when she had fled to her father’s house. 

She didn’t mean to snoop. She had meant to crawl into the bed and sleep for days, but in her fatigue she’d bumped against the dresser, knocked scattered items to the floor. It was in setting them to rights that she saw it: the seashell-shaped dish, so obviously hers. The sapphire ring the only thing inside of it. 

He’s sitting on the couch with his head in his hands when she emerges, wearing one of his old shirts and cradling the engagement ring in her palm like some delicate and injured thing. 

“You kept it.” 

She perches beside him, watches as he lifts his head to look at her, the sweep of his eyes taking in her loose hair, the shirt, the ring cupped in her palm, and he nods. 

“Yeah,” he says, in a voice gone low and rough. “I kept it.” His eyes haven’t left the ring in her hands. 

“Why?” 

He shrugs, lifting just one broad shoulder, then reaches out to touch the ring’s white-gold band. 

“Fool’s hope, I guess.” 

Before he can pull his hand away, she closes her fingers, feels the sharp intake of breath. 

“Lothiriel…” She’s been looking at him all this time, and so she meets his gaze as soon as it turns to her. And his eyes are so wary and yearning and hopeful that she can feel her heart breaking all over again.  _Don’t give me false hope_ , that gaze seems to plead, and she has no intention of it. The fingers of her free hand alight gently on his lips to quiet him, and her grey eyes are solemn.

“I’m the only fool here,” she assures him, gently threading their fingers together, trapping the ring between his rough, bandaged palm and her smooth one. “I’m sorry, Eomer. I shouldn’t have left, I didn’t want to, but I was…I was so scared.” He had been throwing himself into the fray with so little fear, so little self-preservation. The fear and the uncertainty, the dread and the grief of war had slipped into her brain and whispered it would hurt less to leave, now. 

Listening to that whisper had been the greatest regret of her life, the howling pain and fear that had followed her through every Daily Prophet list of the dead, every dark Ministry announcement, every moment of every day. 

“Can you forgive me?” 

Without a word he surges forward to capture her lips in a searing, desperate kiss that she returns with all fervor and a little gasp. She lets him pull her into his lap,  _whimpers_ as his kisses move to her neck. 

She doesn’t feel him slip the ring from her hand with deft fingers until he pulls away, until they’re both breathless, until he takes her hand in his and kisses her palm before holding it still, the other hand holding the ring up for her to see. 

He doesn’t speak the question, but it’s one he has already asked. She can see it in his eyes, can feel her own tears hot on her cheeks as she nods. 

The ring fits just as perfectly as it did the day he had proposed, but she barely notices: the hand that wears it is buried deep in his hair moments later, as he pulls her back for another kiss. It takes every ounce of her strength of will to pull away, to rise from his lap and stand before him. And for a moment he looks so confused, so bereft, that she almost slips back into his arms again. But she holds out her hands instead, tugs him to his feet and backs her way toward the stairs. 

Tomorrow, they’ll have to go to St. Mungo’s. Tomorrow, they’ll have to face the injuries and scars and memories. But that’s tomorrow, and they’ll face it together, and she knows that the sight of the ring back on her hand will make Eowyn smile. But that’s tomorrow, and they’ll face it together, and there’s no way on earth she’s letting him sleep on the couch. 

“It’s been a long day,” she says. “You should come to bed.” 

Understanding sweeps across his face in one brief, happy moment. He doesn’t let her walk there, scoops her up in his arms despite her laughing protests, and carries her to bed. 


	10. Strange Southern Fruits

He still isn’t entirely sure how he feels about figs, though he had liked them paired with the soft cheese and nuts that Lothiriel had given him for lunch that first day. (Though that memory is, perhaps, colored by others: the utter joy that had brightened her face when she had first seen him, the first touch of her hand after so many months. The way the heaviness of his fears and doubts and worries lifted at her laughter.) 

But this? 

“This is not a food, Lothiriel.” 

At least, he was not sure how it could be. It was much too hard to bite into, and there didn’t seem to be a way to peel it. 

“It is indeed,” she replied, reaching across the food spread between them on the blanket to pluck the strange fruit from his hands. She lifted a knife and scored the fruit with a series of cuts through the skin. “You see?” With fascination, he watched as her delicate fingers pulled the fruit apart at each cut, yet still, he could not see how one could eat what was inside. 

“Ah - I do not.” 

This time, she giggled, reached for a little wooden bowl and - with a small spoon - dug out multitudes of tiny red beads. 

“There,” she said, and passed him both the bowl and the spoon. “Try it now.” 

He did, but made a face at the strange sweet, tart taste, the texture and the seeds inside each reddish bead. 

Lothiriel, delighted, laughed. She had kept back a quarter of the fruit, plucked seeds one by one between her fingers, and ate them happily. Her lips, he noticed, now had a new redder tint, and he swallowed hard. Carefully, he set the bowl and spoon aside. 

“You don’t like them?” She asked, looking up at him with wide grey eyes.

“Oh, no. I liked it just fine. But I have thought of a way I would like them still more.” 

Her smooth brow furrowed as he reached across the blanket, lifted her chin with the knuckle of a bent finger. 

Gondorian propriety be damned, he hadn’t seen her in too long, had not had the chance to be with her without the watchful eyes of her brothers. And they were betrothed, would be married within the year. What was the harm of a kiss? 

…

As it turned out, he was correct. 

The taste of the fruit was better from her lips. 


	11. In which Eomer plays hockey, Lothiriel is a figure skater, their families like to meddle, and no one has any chill

“Oh, c’mon, Eomer. It won’t kill you to have a little fun for once in your life.” Boromir’s grin is wide and his hand is heavy as it falls on Eomer’s shoulder, nearly knocking the heavy bag’s strap from its place. “Come have a drink with us.” 

The game had been brutal and brutally close, but the victory of their win was still coursing through his blood, so Eomer shook his head and adjusted the strap of his bag. 

“Fine,” he says. “One drink.” 

They all pile into Theodred’s giant truck: Boromir and Theodred in the front, Eomer in the back. But it isn’t a restaurant or a bar parking lot they pull into, it’s a smaller skating rink ten minutes from the arena. 

“What are we doing here?” Eomer asks, glancing up from his phone as they pull to a stop, mid-way through replying to Eowyn’s latest text. 

“Thought I’d bring my little brother and my cousin along,” Boromir says. “They deserve a night off, too.” 

Theodred parks and they pile out of the truck, heading into the building. The high school girl at the lobby’s skate-rental desk waves cheerily to Boromir, who waves right back. Moments later they push through a door and into a familiar chill. Long, sweeping lines intersect one another on the surface of the ice, their cause a pair of white skates on a slender young woman who spins in the very middle of the ice. As she spins, her back arcs backward, arms lifting toward the sky as one leg lifts backward. Each graceful spin barely seems to move her from one single spot on the ice, and Eomer - who has never considered figure skating as anything more than glittery costumes - finds himself transfixed. 

Boromir’s cousin, Lothiriel Prince, had come to several games. She always ran to greet Boromir afterward, laughing with her arms around his shoulders when he lifted her up and spun her around. She’d even joined them for other celebratory dinners following big wins. But it had been a long time since he’d seen her, and he’d never seen her like  _this_.

* * *

 

Her heart is still pounding as she skates her way toward Faramir, knowing the routine had been as close to perfect as it could be. But before she can open her mouth to speak to him, someone shouts “FARAMIR!” across the ice. It’s Boromir’s voice, she’d recognize it anywhere, but Boromir isn’t the first person she sees when she turns around. Instead, she immediately locks eyes with Eomer, and (oh, Valar!) she can already feel herself blushing. Luckily, between physical exertion and cold, she has an excuse for rosy cheeks, and once she makes it off the ice, she’s lifted into the air, skates and all, by Boromir’s strong arms. 

“Olympic gold for sure, little swan,” he says, and she laughs as he sets her down again.

“Try not to jinx it,” she tells him, planting a kiss on his cheek before peering around his shoulder. “Hi, Theodred, Eomer.” 

Faramir passes her skate guards, and she sits down on the lowest bench of the bleachers to attach them. 

“What brings you here?” He asks, turning to look at Boromir, Theodred, and Eomer. Even as he speaks, uncaps a bottle of water and passes it to Lothiriel. Gratefully, she takes a large sip of it, studiously looking only at her cousins and failing at every test. She can’t seem to stop glancing at Eomer. She had been attracted to him from the very first time they met (how could she not be?), and had felt herself slipping slowly but inexorably into a crush from which she was sure she would never recover. 

To judge by the looks Faramir was occasionally throwing in her direction, it wasn’t her most well-hidden secret. 

“We won!” Boromir replies. “And the two of you have been here since the crack of dawn.” 

“We did take breaks, you know,” Lothiriel says from her bench, capping her half-empty water. “And I had a class at nine.” 

“Doesn’t let you get away with much, does she?” Theodred asks, nudging Boromir’s shoulder with his own. 

“I blame her brothers,” Boromir replies. 

Lothiriel catches Eomer’s eye over Boromir’s shoulder, and dips her head to hide her smile at the amused gleam in his eyes. 

“I don’t know, Boromir, we have to be here early tomorrow...” But Faramir makes the mistake of looking down into his cousin’s suddenly wide and pleading eyes. To make her point, she even adds a pout. 

Faramir lets out a long-suffering sigh, and soon enough they’re all piling into Theodred’s truck. Boromir and Theodred are in the front again, but this time there are three in the back: Eomer on one side, Faramir on the other, and Lothiriel - the smallest of them all - tucked between them. 

Tucked between them and breathless, because even the spacious back seat of Theodred’s car is a squeeze when your seat partners included Eomer and Faramir. It pressed her hip-to-knee-touching close to Eomer, and highly aware of it. 

He is too, it seems, though she doesn’t think it can be in a  _good_  way.  He’d shifted over when she’d first climbed in, and now he was sitting stiff as a board and turned to the window, his hand clenched on his knee. Her stomach seemed to sink, and she felt the need to blink back unbidden tears. All this time, she’d thought he at least liked her, even if he didn’t, well... _like_  her. 

It was time to stop being silly, she told herself, and rested her head on Faramir’s shoulder until the car finally came to a stop. 

At least, she thought, the others would put it down to fatigue. 

* * *

 

Even through two layers of jeans - his and hears - he could feel the warmth of her leg where it pressed against his, and felt the desire to reach out and rest his hand on her knee so strongly that he had to curl his fingers into a fist. 

The more he thought about it the more he realized he’d been thinking about her as something other than Boromir’s little cousin for a very long time. 

All those times she’d gone to the game and something in him had driven him just a little bit harder than usual. The gratification of watching her cheer for them from the sidelines, even if he knew it was mostly for Boromir. The slow discovery of just how smart and determined and kind and just plain too-good-for-him she was. 

She smells like coconut and vanilla and something floral that he can’t name. He’s noticed it before, the few times they’d been close enough, but never so close for so long. Eventually, he turns his face to the window in the hope of distracting himself long enough to talk himself down from having any feelings at all for her. Long enough, he hopes, to convince himself that it’s only a physical reaction, something mental or instinctual, something he can ignore. 

It isn’t until Lothiriel leans away from him and tucks her head against Faramir’s shoulder as though to create some distance - any distance - that he realizes he’s not convincing himself of anything. 

* * *

 

Lothiriel recovers after her first gin and tonic, laughs happily at Boromir’s attempts to convince Faramir to drop some hint about the “mystery woman” he’s been seeing. Eomer, on the other hand, only seems to stare more and more deeply into his glass of beer. 

Lothiriel, as it turns out, isn’t the only one who notices. Theodred takes his next chance to sit down beside his cousin and sling an arm around his shoulders. 

“You could just, you know....ask her out.” 

Eomer splutters against a mouthful of beer that seems to have suddenly chosen the wrong way to go down. He gives it a moment when the others all turn to look at him, carefully avoiding Lothiriel’s grey eyes until they turn away again. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“I am talking,” Theodred says, with utmost patience, “About the fact that you’ve been brooding over Lothiriel all evening. And I’m willing to hazard a guess that you’ve been brooding over her for a long while and never realized it.” 

Eomer downed the last gulps of beer rather than answer. Theodred only grins, pats Eomer’s shoulder, and sits down next to Boromir. Whatever he whispers into Boromir’s ear causes the other man to look directly at Eomer....and grin. It was disconcerting, to say the least, but the most disconcerting part of all was Boromir leaving the table entirely. There’s a small band setting up across the bar, and Boromir approaches them to great excitement. They call out his name as he approaches, and Eomer sees Boromir ruffle the hair of the one who looks the youngest. 

As Boromir walks back to the table with a smug grin slowly spreading across his face, the little band picks up a brisk tune that makes Lothiriel’s eyes light up. When Boromir reaches the table again, he executes a solemn, formal bow in front of his cousin and holds out a hand. In moments, they’re whirling across the empty floor in front of the band, Lothiriel’s light feet following each of Boromir’s sure steps. It’s a fast song, all quick movements and complicated turns, but the two move through each step with fluid grace. 

Lothiriel’s eyes are brighter than ever when the song finishes, and she says something to Faramir, laughingly, but Eomer’s attention is caught by the fact that Boromir is steering them both toward him. 

“I asked Merry and Pippin to play a Rohirric song next, Eomer. My cousin loves to learn new dances, you should teach her the steps.” 

Lothiriel, for her part, looks stricken. But she offers him a shy sort of half-smile when their eyes meet. 

With everyone’s eyes turned toward him, Eomer can do nothing but nod. 

“I’m not sure I’ll make the best teacher,” he says, but stands anyway. Lothiriel’s smile softens, goes from half-sure to all-sure in moments. 

“I don’t mind.” 

Ignoring Boromir’s grin, Eomer holds out his hand. 

* * *

 

Her hand is so small in comparison to his, enfolded when his fingers close. They walk to the middle of the floor, joined by a small number of other dancers lured by the slower song. When they reach an empty span of floor, they merely pause for a moment: Lothiriel looking up at him, Eomer looking down at her. 

“How does it start?” Lothiriel asks, hopes her hand doesn’t start to tremble, 

“We, ah - “ Eomer clears his throat, takes an almost apologetic step closer. “Stand. Like this. It’s....close.” 

“I don’t mind,” Lothiriel says again, this time so softly that it’s almost a whisper. This time she’s sure she sees a warmth in his eyes breaking through the guarded gaze. He doesn’t say anything, only nods, but his arm wraps around her waist. 

“It’s not very fast,” he says, and she can’t have imagined the fact that his voice seems lower than usual, lower and softer. “It’ll be easy, compared to that last one.” 

Their eyes meet, and Lothiriel smiles. The only thing she says is “I trust you. Just lead me.” 

So he does. Somehow, he does. Even with the distraction of how warm and soft she is, how close they are, the awareness that her cousins and his are watching. The world just seems to shrink, narrows down to the girl in his arms and the music and the old, familiar steps. 

For once in his life, he feels the dance ends much too soon, and when Lothiriel doesn’t pull away and the music starts again, they just keep dancing. Soon enough, he dips his head to rest his cheek against her hair, breathing in the soft, sweet scent of her and marvels at the way her breath releases on a sigh, the fact that she somehow shifts still closer. 

“What changed?” She whispers, so low that he almost doesn’t catch it. His brow furrows, and he tries to turn his head to look down at her. 

“What do you mean?” 

“In the car,” she says, drawing away just slightly and looking up at him, biting her lower lip for just a moment. “It was like you didn’t want me near you.” 

His smile is slow and warm, and she can feel her heart flutter at it, knows she’s doomed now if she wasn’t already. 

“No,” he says, his voice a deep rumble that she can feel, close as they are. “It was because I did.” 

She thinks again of the press of their legs, the way his jaw had clenched, his hand in a fist on his knee, and the sudden clarity makes her smile shyly, sweetly. It makes her duck her head again, hiding her face against his chest even as the hand at his shoulder curls (for just one fleeting moment) into the fabric of his shirt. 

“So did I,” she says. And she can’t see the smile that those words call up, but the rest of their table can. 

"So much for avoiding distractions,” Faramir says, though there is no exasperation in his tone. “How did you know that would work?” 

Boromir shrugs, resting an arm on the back of Theodred’s chair. 

“They’ve been making calf eyes at each other since they met,” Boromir replies. “But the kids never thought the other one would possibly return the feelings, so they never did a thing about them. I thought it was better to push them straight into it than let them torture themselves. Twenty dollars says they’re inseparable by the end of the week.”

The other two are just too smart to take his bet.  

* * *

 

The music comes to an end, the girl on the ice stops her dazzling spin, and comes to a final stop with her arms uplifted. Lothiriel is dazzling beneath the lights, dressed all in blue and white. But it’s her smile, Eomer thinks, bursting with pride even before the scores are read, that’s the truly dazzling thing. The applause crescendos up around him, and he’s sure it’s the loudest applause he’s heard this whole time. 

Still, nothing rivals the intensity of his own applause as he watches the gold medal take its place around her neck, as her eyes glisten with tears and the country’s anthem soars around them. Nothing except the thunder of his heartbeat when he holds her in his arms afterward, her laughter in his ears, the weight of the little ring box in his pocket. 


	12. First Day of My Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sappy sappy sappy stuff, you have been warned

His face is peaceful in sleep, smooth beneath the coarse golden-haired beard. She hadn't noticed until now just how thick his lashes were: not long, but thick, a dense fringe of dark brown-gold. They flicker in his sleep with the movement of his eyes in dreams, and it makes her hold her breath. It is the first day of their marriage, there are a million moments just like this still to come, and she marvels at the fact. 

He murmurs something, low and indistinguishable, and the arm that's draped around her waist pulls her in still closer. 

Lothiriel smiles, watches as the light of early morning plays across his face, his hair, his skin. Pale golden light, deepening in strength and color with every passing moment. 

And never before has she felt more fully in love than she does in this moment. 

She slips her arm out from beneath the warmth of their furs, fingers lifting to his cheek. They glide with utmost gentleness, barely touching, skimming the line of his cheekbone beneath the beard. 

It does not take him long to wake, her new husband who has learned to wake at the slightest change, the softest noise, if he wished to keep his life. But her touch is so feather-light that even he does not wake until her fingers reach the edge of his mouth. The mouth that curls into the smallest smile when his eyes open to her face, when the first feeling of the day is her soft skin beneath his hand, her face before his eyes. 

A soft pink blush lights up her cheeks when he wakes to find her staring so, but she does not break his gaze as he reaches for her wrist, gently presses her palm with this thumb to splay her fingers open. And kisses her palm so tenderly that she finds her breath has caught again. 

"Good morning, wife," he says, his voice a low rumble, sleep-rough. 

"Good morning," she says, and her reply is breathless, just shy of a whisper. 

He sets her hand down upon the bare skin of his chest, slides his hand up her arm to her shoulder, skims his fingertips along her spine. She squeaks as his fingers brush the middle of her back, a ticklish spot that makes her wriggle, arcing closer, and the self-satisfied look in his eyes is all it takes to see it was exactly what he 'd planned. His hand presses to her lower back to keep her there, pressed flush against him, skin-to-skin beneath fur coverings. 

"I am not used to waking so pleasantly," he says, and his next kiss is pressed to her forehead. 

"I did not mean to wake you," she replies, ignoring the elated skittering of her heart to cuddle closer to his warmth, face pressed against the join of neck and shoulder. 

"You will hear no complaint from me. If you wish to wake me so every morning that I sleep the longer, you have my full permission." 

She giggles, shyly lets herself explore his broad chest and shoulders with her fingertips again, slowing as she reaches his stomach, the scar he had said last night was from an unlucky spear thrust low against his side. 

"Then I shall make it my goal to make every waking pleasant." 

"Is that so?" 

There is something in his eyes that's velvet-dark, soft but hungry, and she recognizes it well from the night before (the way they had gleamed just-so in the firelight when her shift slipped from her shoulders). It's there again now, as he rolls over, hovers over her with weight propped on his elbow by her side. There is something else in those eyes now: wonder, and something else, something vulnerable she has not seen before. When she lifts her hand up to his cheek this time, he leans into it like some great cat, and as she smiles so does he. 

He leans forward to kiss her forehead again. And then the tip of her nose, the apple of each cheek, then (at last! and with a chuckle at her little whine at the delay) her lips. 

"You need only be here to succeed at such a task," he says, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes as he speaks, space he closes again with another kiss, and then another, and another. 


	13. Meant To Be A Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! It's not actually actively shippy. But it's Eothiriel related so I'm decreeing it belongs here. A lil brotp story between Lothiriel and her cousin for you

“I was not meant to be a queen.” The words leave her so quickly, slippery as eels, and the shock of it is written plain across her face. Uncomfortable beneath her cousin’s careful gaze, she draws her knees up, arranges her skirts over her knees, her feet, then wraps her arms about her legs. “I was never meant to lead anyone at all, Faramir, much less a whole…country.” 

“You would have led a household, at least,” Faramir observes, marking his place in the book he had been reading. 

“Oh, that’s hardly the same.” 

“Is it not?” 

He smiles when she looks up at him, that old familiar smile.  _Her_ smile, she used to call it, for she only ever saw this form of it when he was speaking to her. 

“What is a country,” he says, “if not a very large household?” 

She falls back upon the cushions of the window-seat with a heavy sigh, folding her hands upon her stomach and staring up at the ceiling. It’s a studious effort, indeed, but she pretends not to hear her cousin’s chuckle. 

“I know you well enough to know when you are teasing me,” she says. “Even if you are not as obvious about it as Erchirion or Amrothos.” 

“Perhaps I am,” Faramir says. “But only because you seem to forget that I was not meant to be what I am now. It is Boromir who should have been Steward, and no man has before been Prince of Ithilien.” 

“Oh.” It leaves her on a whisper just before she sits up again, catching Faramir’s half smile and returning it with one of her own. “….I had forgotten.” 

“Indeed,” Faramir says with a lift of his brow that makes Lothiriel giggle. 

“Will you forgive me?” She asks, widening her eyes with all of the innocence she could muster. 

“Ah, there is no question of that. And no question at all, for you need no forgiveness from me. Come here.” 

He holds out a hand to her and Lothiriel rises, walks to her cousin’s side and grasps his hand as she kneels by his knee. Faramir tucks a loose strand of her hair back with the hand he keeps free, then tips her chin up with the gentle crook of a finger. 

“When your father and brothers left to fight for Minas Tirith,” he says, “Who remained behind to defend the city?” 

“Mother,” Lothiriel says, promptly, ever a good student. 

“And…? If I am not forgetting, there was another.” 

“You mean….me?” 

Faramir nods gravely as Lothiriel looks up at him, puzzled. 

“But I did so little!” She protests. “Little but pray that father and the boys would return home safely, that you would live, that Dol Amroth would not be destroyed….” 

“You did more than pray, if what I have heard is true,” he says. “It is not only the noble men and women of your city who spoke of your strength and kindness when all seemed most dark. Your mother herself told me that it was your thinking she relied on in the time of most trouble.” 

Her cheeks flush, the puzzled look becoming still more puzzled. 

“You are not a leader in the way of Elphir or even Amrothos,” says Faramir. “No, nor even in the way of Eowyn. But you are very much like your father, and he is the best Prince of Men recent history has seen.” 

This earns him a smile, shaky though it seems. 

“You love Eomer,” Faramir continues, seeing no sign of Lothiriel speaking. “Do you not?” 

Her flush deepens but she nods, fingers squeezing his. 

“And have you spoken to him of this?” 

“Spoken to him?” She asks. “Of my fear of being queen?  _His_ queen?” 

“Lothiriel,” Faramir says, and this time his voice is almost stern. “Think. You have again forgotten, though I know well the sharpness of your mind. As you were not born to be a queen, nor was Eomer to be a king. And yet he rules, and rules well from what I hear. The fears you have, he had, too. And had the worse of, for he had no one to stand by his side when he began, as you will.” 

He tugs his hand from her grasp, leans forward to cup her face between his palms and press a kiss upon her forehead. 

“Think not of what you were meant to be, for it no longer matters,” he says, looking down into her eyes with the faint beginnings of a smile. “You will be a wonderful queen, and one who is loved, for how could anyone upon this earth not love you? Now go, and speak to Eomer. Do not let these fears trouble you longer.” 

She nods, and the smile that she gives him now does not tremble. 

Before Lothiriel leaves, she kisses her cousin’s cheek and whispers words of thanks, but then she is gone in a whirl of lavender skirts and the scent of flowers. And though Faramir turns his attention back to his book, it is with a smile and a shake of his head. It takes nearly a minute more before all thought returns to poetry and history. 


	14. Fake Dating + Suddenly Flustered Because Of a  Particular Outfit™

It had started as a one time favor when the ex that had cheated on her invited her to his wedding with a plus one. Any awkwardness had been more than worth it just to see his face change from smug to confused to pretending-not-to-care when he saw her walking in with Éomer. (  Éomer who, by some instinct she did not know whether to bless or curse, had spent the rest of the evening  _touching_ her: his hand at the small of her back when they walked, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear, holding her hand, holding her just a little more closely than he had to when they danced.)

And then that one time favor had turned into a second favor when another event had needed a date. Then that had turned into a third event, which had turned into a misunderstanding, which had turned into a Thing, and now everyone in the world seemed to think that they were dating....including the woman who had basically helped to raise  Éomer and  Éowyn. She was old, now, and the closest thing that  Éomer had to a grandmother, and she had been so thrilled when she had heard they were “together” that neither of them had any heart to tell the truth.

Instead, they kept on  _going_. They went to family birthday parties together, they went to formal events together, they went to meet Estella and Merry’s baby together. They never really did much of anything, beyond hold hands and kiss cheeks, and still Lothiirle had to remind herself each time that it was just for show. That the fluttering in her stomach needed to die down, because there wasn’t any point. Not to mention the fact that she wasn’t sure she liked the way  Éowyn had been looking at them, lately.  Éowyn, one of the few who knew that they Weren’t Truly Dating.  

Not that it seemed to help matters much. 

In fact, it only seemed to make them worse. The other day, she’d nearly cried when he had put his hand on her knee. 

And now they were going somewhere again, this time to the yearly summer beach festival in Dol Amroth, the one Lothiriel had all but begged the rest of them to attend. 

Though she was second-guessing all that begging, now that she was twisting and turning in front of a mirror to look at herself in the bathing suit  Éowyn had insisted she wear. It was different than her usual. Smaller, for one thing. She tended to prefer something....sturdier. One pieces, maybe with cutouts, something she could run and swim in without worry. 

“If this comes off in the first wave that hits the beach, I’m going to  _drown_ you,” Lothiriel grumbles, trying to tie the halter-top more tightly ‘round her neck. It wasn’t skimpy, at least : the straps that made the halter ties were thick enough, and though the cut exposed rather....more than usual, it was at least a decent in-between of what she was used to and what she  _wasn’t_. 

And it was  _green,_ instead of blue. 

With a sigh, she lets her hands fall to her hips, pinches at the skin above the line of her swimsuit bottoms with a frown. All this time and she still felt so....soft, when she was in the same room as Éowyn. So  _ordinary_. 

“Okay, first of all, stop that,”  Éowyn admonishes, stepping up beside Lothiriel to swat her hands away. “You look amazing. Second, the way you have that thing tied,  _you’re_ going to have a hard time taking it off at the end of the day, so you can stop worrying about  _that_.”  

“I still don’t see why I shouldn’t just wear my normal suit,” Lothiriel sighs, fish-tail braiding her hair with practiced fingers. 

“I told you, if you’re making me go to a beach party, we’re going to coordinate,”  Éowyn says, in a way that makes Lothiriel cast a sidelong glance at her. She’s wearing a suit in a soft gold color, with a white cover-up knotted at her hip.

“You’ve never cared about  _coordinating_  before.” 

“I do today. Now where’s that sunscreen you said you had? If I’m going to burn to a crisp for you, I’m not going to do it literally.” 

“On the table,” Lothiriel replies, shimmying into a pair of denim shorts, kicking her feet into a nearby pair of sandals. “But bring it with you, we should probably get going.” 

Why  Éowyn ‘s smile goes decidedly cat-who-got-the-canary at that, Lothiriel isn’t sure...and isn’t sure she wants to know. 

But when they get to the beach, when they clamber out of  Éowyn ‘s car and meet the others in the parking lot, she knows. Because  Éomer nearly stops dead in his tracks. 

Éomer, who isn’t wearing a shirt, and whose swimming trunks should really be illegal. 

“Hi,” she says at the same time that he says “Hey,” and then they both - - at the same time - - stumble through two different versions of “you look great” until they’re both left standing there, awkwardly, toe-to-toe and  _silent_. 

“ Oh, for the sake of the Valar,”  Éowyn says, loudly, making both of them jump. “Help each other put sunscreen on and get over it, everyone seems to know this whole “fake dating” thing turned into “really dating” after the second date.” 

Éomer barely catches the tube of sunscreen that  Éowyn tosses at him. He’s too busy glaring at his sister. 

“We’re going down to the beach to set up,” she says, as Faramir tries to hide his grin. “We’ll meet you down there. And if you aren’t both grinning like the stupid love-struck idiots you are when you get there, I’m  _leaving_.” 

When they go (not without several whispers and glances behind them),  Éomer and Lothiriel are left in silence,  Éomer still holding the tube of sunscreen as though it might explode. “I ah-....do you actually want me to....?” 

“Sure,” she says, in a voice that barely makes it above a whisper. “I...put some on in the car, but I couldn’t reach my back.” 

He swallows so hard that she can see his throat bob, but he nods and she turns around, pulling her braid over one shoulder, heart pounding. 

The lotion is cool as he spreads it across the backs of her shoulders but is hands are warm, and it’s the warmth that makes Lothiriel shiver. He pauses for a minute, and then continues, moving down her spine, then - - with another hesitating pause - - down her back to the top of her shorts. She doesn’t want him to stop, but he does. He has to. “There,” he says, in a deeper tone than usual. “My turn.” 

Her breath is snagged so firmly in her throat that she’s not sure that she’ll ever get it back, and he barely looks at her as he passes her the sunscreen and turns around. Like his hands, his skin is warm. The muscles beneath the skin are hard, though the skin above them seems to jump and ripple as she goes, corresponding to her touch. And Lothiriel has the stupid, inexplicable urge to press a kiss to the back of his shoulder-blade, to stand on tip-toe and kiss each shoulder. To wrap her arms around him and press her face against his back and not move until....

“Done?” 

“Yeah.” 

She caps the tube and waits for him to turn, but for a long, strange moment, he just stands still. And then...

Without a word he turns to her, and her eyes have to skim from his chest to his shoulders before they get to his eyes, and if her heart wasn’t hammering before? It certainly is, now. 

“What  Éowyn said,” he murmurs when she looks up at him at last. “About....us.” 

Much as she wants to look away she doesn’t, only bites her lip...just to watch as his eyes move to her mouth, and to feel like the entire world had shivered underneath her. 

“Do you  _want_ that, Lothiriel?” 

“....What?” 

“For this to be real.” 

The breath she takes is shaky, but her hand is surprisingly steady as it slips into his, as their fingers intertwine. And she doesn’t stop him when his hand lifts to her waist and tugs her closer. And all she can think is  _yes, yes, yes._  So many echoes of the word “yes” that she doesn’t realize she hasn’t  _said_ it until he dips his head to look at her. 

“I kind of think it already is,” she says, with a confidence in the words that surprises her. But not  Éomer, it seems : he only smiles a slow, warm sort of smile that she hasn’t truly seen before, but only glimpsed. 

“Good,” he says. “Because I couldn’t do this, otherwise.” 

His lips are even warmer than his hands, Lothiriel thinks when he kisses her. Warm and gentle, even as he wraps his arm more fully ‘round her waist to hold her close against him. 

It takes a long time for them to meet  Éowyn and Faramir down on the beach. But when they do, they’re both grinning like the stupid, love-struck idiots they had always been. 

(And Éowyn? She doesn’t stop teasing them about it for two full weeks.) 


End file.
